Lessons from a late-bloomer

A few years ago, a colleague, Felix, gave me a sampaguita plant in a small pot. He had given me many other plants, but few survived to see the next season of American Idol. The joke is, my thumb will only turn green when I get an in-grown-nail infection, which hasn’t happened yet. A series of maids had also tended to my plants, one of whom had the effect of a solar dryer. Felix, who has a garden as lush as a tropical jungle, begged me to let her stay away from the sampaguita. It was a decree.

Ah, but three years, two dogs and one relocation (from Makati to Parañaque) later, I woke up one fine morning to see that the sampaguita plant Felix had given me also needed to move on – to a bigger pot. From a clump of leaves in a pot the size of a child’s beach pail, it had become a shrub. And from what once seemed as just a corsage, the sampaguita had literally blossomed into a giant bouquet, with dozens of flowers that glistened like pearls in the night, when they seduce me with their fragrance.

My sampaguita is a late bloomer, and in some ways, so am I. I am a sucker for compliments and I am tickled pink when people who haven’t seen me in decades say I look more fit now than I used to. My Uncle Pete says I am a late bloomer. Well, I’d rather be compared to the sampaguita in my garden than to wine. And as a gardener, I really am a late bloomer. No contest.

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Since I received the sampaguita, I had belatedly learned what every gardener and social scientist instinctively knows – that some creatures take to the sun, while others prefer the soothing quiet of the shade. Just like people – some bask in the limelight, while others retreat to the solitude of the shadows.

Same with my little sampaguita which I used to keep in the shade. One day I took it to bask in the sun, and in doing so, gave it its rightful place. Like most flowering plants, the sampaguita arches its neck so it could face the sun, and when splashed with sunlight, it just radiates with a myriad of blooms. My gardener friends would probably scoff at my belated discovery (about flowering plants being drawn to the sun), but hey, they didn’t teach that in kindergarten or in the pre-wedding seminars they used to give to engaged couples at City Hall. This is one of those lessons in life that you learn from your backyard, even as you sleep: We all have our place in the sun, and when you find yours, don’t yield your spot. Live where you thrive. Some are to the limelight born, but go seek the shade when you must.

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I positioned the sampaguita pot right beside the pedestrian gate of our townhouse, and right before I step into the garage, I always stop and smell the flowers.

I stop and smell the flowers.

I didn’t invent that line, but I’m glad that I’m living it. I am at a point in my life when I plan the contents of a magazine as well as the contents of a cupboard, I keep an eagle eye on printing deadlines and Meralco deadlines (they are the most unforgiving), I plan the next out-of-town trip (personal and official) even if the current trip hasn’t begun. I pore over my daily planner while spying at my son’s social calendar – yes, his is more exciting and hectic than mine.

Life’s a swirl, but hey, I do know when to stop and smell the flowers. Seduced by the sampaguita’s pristine beauty and fragrance, and feeling like a pseudo creator because I have seen the fragile buds survive the ravages of time and my gardener’s luck (or "lack"), I often pluck a sampaguita from its crown at night and lay the bloom on my pillow, the way they lay orchids in your pillows in ritzy hotels. My late bloomer has taught me that stopping to smell the flowers – or to admire the sunset – is never a waste of time.

I’ve discovered another secret to happiness. And it’s heaven-scent.

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